Re: Cass & Mat: the Quiet Home
Only some promises held water. Some had tiny, tiny holes, good intentions stretched too thin to hold the whole. People intended to keep them, but they were like ribbons, sliding silkily as water between their fingers and ebbing away. Promises that held firm were less usual, ballast in the moil Cass was mired in. She cocked an eyebrow, the slow slide of expression like ink in water as her eyes focused on Matilda's face. "I don't keep promises. I don't know many people who do."
She breathed in smoke. She'd smoked, in France. Everyone did there, and she picked up habits the way other people tried out shoes, with a little curiosity as to whether they suited. Before - the Before - she'd smoked most days, a single cigarette into the cool air of early morning. It felt familiar. "It's the Quiet Home," she explained, without explaining wholly. It was what it said, hush and a place to live. It wasn't a home, just the home.
"Nobody has magic here. Or no one I've seen. It's where all the rich problems get sent, instead of consequences." Cass said this with equanimity, and shrugged one narrow shoulder under staid cotton. "I dislike them too."